Paranormal Inactivity
by PopcornChicken66
Summary: Kyle has always really hated horror movies. One-shot, implications of Kyman.


Disclaimer: I do not own South Park or its characters.

**Paranormal Inactivity**

By PopcornChicken66

I really hate horror movies.

They are so pointless- who enjoys being scared, anyway? The plots are deficient, the suspense ridiculously elongated, and the characters irrevocably lacking in common sense. Because of my complete depiction and disregard of them, they shouldn't strike fear into my heart as they're intended to, right?

But they do.

That's what pisses me off the most. It's not just the jump-scares that get to me, but the ghosts, murderers, stalkers, supernatural beings… they plague my dreams for days, occasionally weeks, after I experience the displeasure of watching them haunt innocent souls. I'm not a wimp, I'm _not_, it's just those goddamn horror movies that get to me.

My least favorites are the ones that take place in ordinary homes, the ones in which scenes occur that I can vividly imagine happening in my own house. That is the reason that I specifically avoided _Paranormal Activity_, just _knowing_ that I would regret ever stepping foot into that dull-colored theater smelling strongly of buttered popcorn. However, I am never one to shy away from a challenge or a dare, lest it diminish my defiant, determined pride.

_Especially_ if the challenge is proposed by Eric Cartman.

So that's how I ended up here, curled up on my bed, music blasting through my earphones, all the lights on in the house as I struggle to concentrate on the cheerful cartoon my television is displaying. Yes, I have resorted to _Spongebob_ to prevent any trace of the film from penetrating my thoughts. I can't help but be thankful that I was dared to watch it alone as my parents attended a Friday night dinner party, my nail-biting and flinching unexposed to the mocking eyes of my friends. Now that it's over though, all I crave is the presence of another_ living_ human being to comfort me. Even Timmy, wheelchair and all, or perhaps my cousin Kyle, would be tolerable as long as I wasn't so achingly alone. Cartman's smug company is the least tempting, but I would even accept him over the numb fear and paranoia I have succumbed to.

At an interval between songs, I hear a noise.

It's not much, just a light creak I would normally dismiss as the house settling beneath gravity's relentless force, but I immediately pause my iPod and mute my T.V., scanning my bedroom with wide eyes. Silence. I take a deep breath and stand, but ultimately sit back down. _It's nothing, Kyle. Calm the fuck down._

Another noise.

I tense, lifting my already ravaged thumbnail to my teeth, gnawing as I stare worriedly at my closed door. I hear light banging sounds, seemingly traveling from downstairs. I gulp and stare down at my bare feet, wiggling my toes and willing my legs to stand up. I glance at the clock. 8:32 P.M. It's possible my parents could be home… yeah, it's probably them. I should go talk to them, ask them how it went.

Never mind the fact that it has only been two hours since the party started.

I substitute my lip for my thumb and rise to my feet, bare soles silent on the worn carpet as I pad slowly to the door. I wince at the slight creak as it opens under the influence of my pull and brace myself, but am faced with nothing, my mother's modern decorations in the hallways bathed in welcoming yellow light. The small ruckus from below continues, and I step forward to the banister, peering down. The kitchen is hidden from my line of sight.

"Mom? Dad?"

The clamor stops.

The hairs on the back of my next rise and I'm instantly engulfed with the inkling that I'm being watched. I whip around to my bedroom window and catch sight of a shadow speeding past the glass. I inhale sharply, sprinting to the frame to stare out, though I'm met only with the ruthless whipping of snow, the pure white substance blanketing the ground below. Nothing-nobody-is there.

I shut the curtains tightly and turn, approaching my door to close it once again when the electricity arbitrarily cuts, and I'm enveloped in pitch blackness. I hurry back to my window, shoving the curtains apart to allow the moonlight in, and notice that the neighbors' houses are lit up merrily without disturbance. I furrow my eyebrows, and then feel my features contort in horror.

Just _my_ house?

No. No. It… It's not happening.

"It's not real; it's just a movie, not real; just a movie…" I repeat this to myself, attempting to calm my nerves with the sound of my own voice and the reassurance of the falseness of ghost existence. It's just not logical. So what if the movie is based off of a true story? As far as I know, I haven't been taunted or stalked by a perturbed spirit throughout my lifetime.

As far as I know.

Fuck, _no_. I'm just making things worse for myself. Eyeing the shadows cast across my room, I know I can't stay in here. Not with my open closet, blackness gaping at me, suggesting hidden torments my eyes could never detect. I quickly finish the stride to my door and jog down the stairs, assuring myself that it's only my footsteps I heed. I fumble around in the cabinets for candles, stumbling into an open drawer and cursing as I search for a lighter. I hear a light tapping from behind me and whip around, candles plunging from my grasp.

There's nothing there.

I jump about a foot in the air at an ear-splitting bash, the direction of which is impossible to perceive. Yelping, I sprint to the stairs, but from the bottom catch sight of the window through my open bedroom door.

It's open.

I freeze in place, my heart pounding loudly, blood rushing in my ears, body nearly convulsing with trembles. At the sound of a deep chuckle, I bellow a shamefully high-pitched shriek and run to the front door, unlocking it, ignoring the persistent beeping of the alarm as my bare feet slap on the freezing pavement. My skin, more exposed than usual beneath a T-shirt and pajama pants, protests to the frigid Colorado air. The harsh wind lashes at my uncovered scalp, my familiar ushanka forgotten on the nightstand beside my bed.

I hear footfalls trailing me, advancing on me, and adrenaline rushes venture to propel me faster, but my limbs protest as the cold seeps into them. My teeth chatter, and I bite my tongue _hard_, tasting metallic blood. I am so beyond petrified, breathing raggedly as I struggle to escape whatever lies within my house, whatever is following me,_ prowling_ me, chuckling darkly, causing my flesh to crawl.

When an arm grips my own, I shout loudly and wrench myself sideways from the fingers, landing in the street. My bare skin is scraped roughly against the paved surface, and I'm vaguely aware that I hit my head as my thoughts become a merry-go-round. The jarring impact springs tears to my eyes, and as I see a shadow emerge from behind in the dim glow of the streetlights, they begin to flow. Warm liquid trickles down my forehead and into my eyes, causing my vision to blur, but I crawl forward unsteadily, trying desperately to escape _it_. Arms hook around my torso and forcefully tug me to my feet, and I fight desperately, kicking and protesting verbally, arms flailing. My colorful vocabulary of curse words spews from my mouth as I sputter, choking on my own sobs.

"Kahl! Fucking- Ow! Kahl, it's me you dumb fuck!"

I'm spun around to be met with a very familiar face, but my brain doesn't process it fast enough and my nails rake across his cheek. He hisses and flinches away, but doesn't lose his grip on me. I finally stop when he begins to shake me, and I stare doe-eyed into his angry coffee-colored orbs. I'm shivering violently, jaw nearly unhinging with the incessant chattering of my teeth. The tears don't stop, but as my befuddled mind finally registers Cartman's presence, relief floods my body, and I go limp in his clutch. I don't want to feel comforted by his being there, but I'm just so utterly _shaken_ that I can't bring myself to mask the gratitude that must be evident in my eyes.

I don't know why I feel safe. If anything, this bastard has been the cause of everything hazardous within my life, but the absolute last thing I want in this very moment is for him to leave. "C-Cartman?" I choke, voice wavering.

"Shit, you're bleeding." He glances towards my house and I become aware of the alarm blaring loudly throughout the vicinity. My mother is going to _murder_ me. That, however, is the last thing on my mind as the bitter wintry atmosphere really distinguishes and I'm tempted to press myself into the warmness I feel emanating from Cartman. I would never though, not even if I was stark naked and chilling with the penguins in Antarctica.

"Come on, Jew. We'll go to my house."

And I'm stumbling along, allowing myself to be steered by the strong hold on my arm, feet numbing from the sharp, icy contact of the concrete. When we're inside and I'm dumped on the couch, my exerted body collapses in on itself and my foggy brain process is put to rest as I'm graced with sweet unconsciousness.

* * *

It wasn't funny.

Sure, it was entertaining at first, watching Kyle run around his house like a retard, screaming like a girl, talking to himself. It was priceless when he sprinted out the door, yelling when I touched him and spazzing out into the street.

Then he hit the ground.

I tried to laugh, I did, but watching him crawl forward pathetically, bawling like an idiot and dressed poorly for the weather conditions didn't bring the satisfaction I was swarmed with just moments before. I hoisted him up, but he fought me. I attempted to remind myself that he didn't know it was me, that he wasn't trying to get away from me, but from what he thought was a monster.

And I am not a monster.

I turned him to face me, absorbing his tear-streaked appearance, his horrified eyes glassy and looking through me rather than at me as he viciously clawed my face. I didn't drop him, despite my reflexive anger, afraid he'd shatter into millions of pieces.

In that moment, I think I was almost as scared as he was.

He finally realized it was me, and I was relieved as he uttered my name appreciatively, despite the fact that I'd done all of this to him. A hollow feeling inhabited the pit of my stomach as I spotted the blood flowing freely from his head wound. He quivered brutally, looking more fragile than his know-it-all exterior had ever allowed him to and seeming as if he'd collapse at any given time.

I took him to my house and patched him up as he slept. I loathed myself temporarily for the first time in a long time for helping him, for not feeling any fulfillment or amusement from what I'd done. Why was I being thoughtful? Why was my touch feather-like as I treated his injuries, dreading the thought of causing him even the slightest pain when I'd dreamt of torturing him agonizingly several times before?

What the fuck was this emotion pricking at my mind, at my (dare I say it) heart and/or soul, almost as if I_ regretted_ my actions?

It was certainly new, that was distinct.

* * *

I wake up to gentle beams of sunlight, aware of the unfamiliar cushions beneath me and recalling last night's terror. The coldness has been eliminated from my bones, and I notice that I'm beneath several thick blankets, perhaps even more than three, and there is a thick, padded bandage on my head. I don't know what Cartman is getting to by helping me out like this, but I'm not looking forward to confronting him. Recollecting my utter nervous breakdown definitely doesn't help in that prospect. I sit up gingerly, feeling my forehead with tender fingers and wincing.

I know that skin is thinner on the head and it bleeds excessively when broken, so my injury is most likely minor. My thoughts are clear and concise, so I know I don't have any sort of concussion, and although my tended gashes and dark purple bruises sting profusely, I'm relieved it's nothing serious. My eyes find the clock, and I notice that it's about nine in the morning. I heave a sigh at the image of my mother's headache-inducing shriek resonating in my eardrums, but reach for the phone anyway.

"I called her already."

I turn and find Cartman leaning against the wall, hair wet from what I assume was the shower, barefooted in a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt. "My mom?" I clarify stupidly.

"Yeah."

"Oh. Thanks."

My gaze falls to my lap and I sit there awkwardly for a few seconds before untangling myself from the blankets and standing determinedly. I walk over to him and stare him down coldly with narrowed eyes. Our teenage years have caused us to shoot up in height, and we're both about the same; if either is taller it's hardly by an inch. He meets my eyes blankly.

"Do you mind explaining to me why you happened to be at my home last night?"

"I dunno Kahl, but it sure was a sight to see a Jew sniveling and running like crazy in his pajamas, looking like he'd seen a ghost or something."

My fists clench. "_Fuck_ you! I know you were the one who did all of that, you asshole! Making a shitload of noise, cutting my electricity, opening my window, laughing like some evil predator, and then chasing me out of my own fucking house in the fucking _snow_."

"It's not my fault you're a pussy, Kahl."

"I am not a-" I cut myself off, shoulders slumping. I feel humiliated for acting the way I did last night and I'm not doing myself any justice. It would be better if I just pretend none of this ever happened, as long as he lets it go too. But that's a high hope to shoot for. "…Whatever. You're an ass."

I release my fists to relieve them of the pain caused by my fingernails contacting the lengthy scrapes on my palms. I turn on my heel and sub-consciously reach my hand up to prod at my head injury as I approach the couch, sitting on it heavily. I hear him follow.

"…Is your head alright?" At the look I give him, he adds, "I mean, is your brain still in one piece? I'm not calling any ambulances."

"It's fine, nothing too big," I say, eyes averted from his face. I know I need to get home, but that would require Cartman driving me in his mom's Toyota because I can't very well walk without shoes and I really don't want to be asking him any favors.

"I um…" I hear him shift uncomfortably. "I have hot chocolate if you're still cold, or… we could play the new COD game-"

"Cartman, if you just apologize you can spare us both the discomfort of your attempts at making it up to me."

"Fuck off Jew, I don't feel guilty! It's your own fault for being such a little fucking bitch about everything!"

My lips press into a tight line and I stand. I know I can't go far, but Kenny's house is right down the block and however cheap their phone lines are, I know they run because of the two jobs Kenny works to pay the bills. I can call Stan or whoever to give me a ride because I sure as hell am not sticking around to be degraded any further after last night. My fury and embarrassment has not subsided and I'm really not in the mood to start a fight with Cartman by exploding at him. I walk to the front door and turn the handle but he's suddenly there and stopping me with his arm.

"Don't be fucking stupid, it's still snowing out there."

"Cartman, I know you don't care about me, as has been made clear by this." I gesture to my injuries and tug at the door. It doesn't budge.

"Wha… I… I just don't want your stingy parents suing me when your body is found dead on the street."

I sigh. "I know you didn't do this part on purpose, that was unfair. Your prank wasn't out of the ordinary or anything, nothing that's below you, so can we please just forget about this? I know I humiliated myself. It's bad enough that I nearly shit my pants, but I was also acting like a maniac and I hate crying-" I stop myself from saying 'in front of you,' but he gets the message. I grimace and mentally kick myself for being vulnerable.

"Now I have to get home, or my mom will tear my leg off or something, so-"

"I'm sorry."

The words don't register. "-I'm either walking or you give me a ride. Unless I get picked up from here, that would work too-"

I stop, eyes widening, jaw dropping. I gape at him like an idiot for what seems to be a painful eternity for the both of us until I can manage to stutter a reply. "Wha- What did you just say?"

He doesn't repeat himself, not that I expected him to. Eric Cartman? Apologizing? To _me_?

"I wish I could believe that," I say, voicing my thoughts as they regain coherent control.

I stare at his face and notice the pink scratches lining his cheekbone for the first time. Before I can stop myself, my fingertips reach out, brushing the chafes I caused. He doesn't flinch away, but stares at me mildly, seeming a bit incredulous. "Sorry about that," I mutter, stroking the sensitive patch with my thumb gently before withdrawing, anticipating a 'fag' remark. It doesn't come.

"You're too fucking nice for your own good, Jew."

"Maybe not," I say, smacking him across his injured cheek, not hard enough to _really_ sting, but with just enough assertiveness to get my point across. He doesn't wail like he would've when we were younger, but gives me a blank look, as if he'd expected it. Which he probably did. However, the foreignism of being so kind-hearted towards him was too much to bear, and I had to break the tension. "Ever pull a prank like that on me again Cartman, and I swear on my life I won't hesitate to kill you."

"You know Kahl…"

"What."

"I _do_ own the sequel to _Paranormal Activity_…"

I try to suppress it but soon I'm laughing until my stomach hurts, the complete douchiness of the comment and indirect jab at my pride actually striking me as hilarious for the first time since such comments had begun escaping Cartman's lips.

"You're such a bastard."

_~fin_

* * *

_Epilogue_

To say things changed may be an exaggeration of my overactive mind. Perhaps I'm looking into it too much; the lessening of severe ego sabotages on his part just a figment of my imagination. I mean, it's not like I'm offering to help with his homework any more than I used to, and what's the use in throwing away the curly fries that come with my lunch if someone else, A.K.A. Cartman, is willing to eat them? Kenny shares Stan's food, so it's not like he ever asks for them and… when they're not complimentary with the meal I only buy them in case I feel like eating them later, though I never do. My eyes are bigger than my stomach, that's all.

We _don't_ hang out more often. We _don't_ partner up in class more frequently, or excessively exchange XBOX games or discuss things more civilly than before. We've always acted like this constantly, though I'm just now noticing it. Stupid over-analyzing brain.

I had noted that he'd grown into his weight awhile ago, it's not like I'm just starting to become aware of it or anything. And although now he's more borderline chubby, he will always be Fatass. Yeah Kyle, he got a haircut a couple weeks ago, remember? And no Kyle, that shirt's not new; didn't he wear it like a month ago or something? _Right. That explains the tag carelessly forgotten on the neckline._

And no, I don't like watching horror films with him at his house, because they're stupid and he always berates me for my reactions. I need to stop letting him con me into coming over for scary movie marathons, because I am totally less than willing.

I just don't have anything better to do on Friday nights. And I still hold fast to my opinion that going to the movies with Stan or the arcade with Kenny would be better on Saturdays because I have more sleep and energy.

…Despite the fact that I stay up until nearly three in the morning watching those damned movies.

I still think I'm imagining it all.

* * *

**A/N: Just an idea that popped into my head. I personally love horror flicks, though I'm definitely not like Kyle in this aspect- they don't often scare me. So since _Paranormal Activity _spooked me a bit, I thought it was worthy of a subject in this story. Also, I picture the two of them to be about 15 in this occasion, if you're curious. I hope I didn't end it too abruptly. Let me know your thoughts! Thanks for reading!**


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